Terrible Things
by dhbPATHWAY1997
Summary: Edward and Winry's son thinks he's fallen in love. But Edward wants to warn him that he knows from experience that life can do terrible things... Drabble; One-shot songfic: "Terrible Things" by Mayday Parade. Let's just pretend EdWin had only one kid.


He was so grown up. Eighteen years old, and he was an interesting mix between his mother and I: my golden-blonde hair, but his mother's crystal-blue eyes. He was a sensible boy, but with bursts of spontaneity that could last for a while, like the time he decided to paint his bedroom walls bright orange and it had taken him a week, then he decided that he hated it. His bedroom walls were still orange. He was pretty easy-going, more like Alphonse, but had a fiery temper when angered like both of Winry and I. The combination of Winry's and my features and traits made my son a unique and lovable boy.

Now, standing in his college dorm, a hundreds of miles where he'd been raised, he told me that he was sure he'd found the one – the girl that made his heart stutter and his hands shake, who made him say those mushy things his friends teased him for, and who he said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

His smile was wide and genuine, and his eyes shone with excitement. I hated to be a buzz kill, but I had to… I never smiled, just put my hand gently on his shoulder. "Son…we should talk."

He looked concerned. "About what, Dad?"

"Sit down," I motioned to the bed and took a seat. He sat down next to me, looking curious.

"What is it?"

"About this girl…"

My son nearly groaned. "Come on, Dad. I know we're young and everything, but I thought you would understand!" He looked at me pleadingly. "I think I love her."

I sighed. "I know. Let me just…let me tell you something. Will you just listen?"

"Okay," he agreed, relaxing a bit.

"When I was your age, after I'd grown up some," I began, "I'd give anything… to fall in love truly was all I could think," I tried to explain. "And I'd known her for a while, but that's when I think I _romantically _met your mother: the girl of my dreams, and the most beautiful woman that I'd ever seen."

My son sat back against his headboard, listening interestedly.

"She said, 'Ed, can I tell you a wonderful thing? I can't help but notice you staring at me.'" I smiled at the memory. "'I know I shouldn't say this, but I really believe that I can tell by your eyes that you're in love with me.'"

The boy grinned. I'd hardly ever talked about Winry with him, not since he'd turned fourteen, and he loved it when I did, hearing all the stories from when we were kids, and after I'd become a state alchemist, traveling around with and without Al.

I was glad that he liked to hear, but I needed him to know that I was being serious. "Now son, I'm only telling you this because life can do terrible things."

His smile faded a little.

I continued. "Now most of the time, we'd have too much to drink, and we'd laugh at the stars and we'd share everything. We were too young to notice, and too young to care, that love was a story that couldn't compare. After a while, I said, 'Winry, can I tell you a wonderful thing? I made you a present with paper and string. Open with care, now I'm asking you please. You know that I love you, will you marry me?'"

"That's how you proposed?" the kid asked, smiling a little again.

I nodded. "Yep. But son, I'm only telling you this because life can do terrible things," I repeated. I hated to make his smile disappear, but this wasn't anything to smile about. I hadn't been this serious since…well…

"You'll learn one day, I'll hope and I'll pray that God shows you differently."

"But Dad, I thought you didn't believe in God," my son contradicted.

"Eh…" I groaned. "It's complicated. Can I tell the story?"

"Yeah, sorry," he apologized, sitting back.

I sighed again. "One day, nearly eight months after you were born, she said, 'Ed, can I tell you a terrible thing? It seems that I'm sick and I've only got weeks. Please don't be sad now, I really believe you were the greatest thing that happened to me.'"

I felt tears in my eyes and I fought to hold them back. The same couldn't be said for my son. I could see the tears welling up in those blue eyes that reminded me every time I looked at them of Winry.

"She…she said that?" he whispered.

I nodded again. "Yes," I whispered back. "She did. Don't get me wrong – you were definitely the second-best," I teased humorlessly. I continued with the story. "Slowly, I fell to the ground on my knees."

This was where things got tricky, and maybe a little screwed up, but I didn't care, because I felt that I had to say it anyway. I had to try.

"So," I begged, "don't fall in love, there's just too much to lose. This now is your chance, and I beg you to choose to walk away. Walk away, please."

My son's eyes were wide, startled and surprised and maybe a little scared.

"Don't let her get you. I just can't bear to see the same thing happen to you." A tear escaped my eye, but I did nothing about it, just let it fall. He was crying, now, too, four or five tears plopping onto the green comforter beneath us. His eyes spilling water made me think of his mother, the way that she cried, when Alphonse and I had come back to Risembool, (mostly) whole.

Winry had sworn to me soon after that that she'd never cry again unless she was happy. Happy tears I could deal with. And every time afterward when she cried, I'd ask her if it was because she was happy. When Alphonse and May had been married, when our baby was born, when Al and May's little girls had been born, when the Colonel (now führer) and Lieutenant Hawkeye had finally tied the knot – every time, she'd promised she was happy. And that day that she told me that she was…dying…she cried. And she promised she was happy. She said she imagined the happy life our little boy and I would have. She said she was thinking of how much he'd look like me when he grew up (which he kind of did, but he'd never had my height problems…). She said she was thinking of seeing her parents again.

But I couldn't deal with her tears then, and I'd shed my own wounded, painful tears, letting the saltwater fall and trying to rid myself of the grief I felt already. And she told me not to cry. _She_ comforted _me_…

Now I was crying again. Just as much as I had that night. Maybe someday, my son – _our_ son – would find love, or maybe this girl really was the real thing, and he'd ignore my warning. Maybe he'd be happy, and nothing would happen. But for now, we were both crying on his bed, in his new home where I wasn't there to take care of him. Where maybe he'd fallen in love, and I might not even be able to save him from that.

For emphasis, and so that maybe he would understand, I repeated, "Now son, I'm only telling you this because life can do terrible things."


End file.
